Beyond the Hole in the Fence

By Gwen Banta

1950. When New York authorities try to remove Rainy from her home, she and Gramps seek refuge with a traveling carnival. They must adapt to an unconventional, nomadic lifestyle filled with carnies whose physical anomalies have defined them as "freaks."

While traveling with the show, Rainy, Gramps, and the carnies suffer through a widespread Polio Epidemic and must fight to survive the ravages of Delaware's terrifying Hurricane Able of 1952. After a shocking turn of events, Rainy longs to return to a normal life. But what does "normal" really mean?

Gwen Banta's BEYOND THE HOLE IN THE FENCE is an edge-of-your-seat adventure filled with colorful, larger-than-life characters. Through humor and heartbreak, Rainy learns she can never recapture her past. She finds love and comes of age in an eccentric environment under remarkable circumstances.

"Thoroughly absorbing from the 1st paragraph... a rollicking ride... an exceptionally vivid portrait of the 1950s and an atmosphere of wonder, revelation, and change." - D. Donovan, Midwest Book Review-

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: May 8, 2024

Book preview

BOOK I: BRIGHT LIGHTS

1

HALCYON DAYS

Endicott, New York - 1950

My grandfather often said that every new day is like a bundle of Christmas. I found that to be a delightful thought once I finally reconciled his philosophy with my childhood, which could be more accurately described as a bundle of carnival freaks.

I confess that my lifestyle wasn't always so unorthodox. Although my birth name was Lorraine Merrill, everyone called me Rainy for short (except local delinquent Tommy DiGiovanni, who saddled me with Drippy). My early childhood resembled a stick drawing of a-mom-and-dad-and-dog-and-cat pastoral scene--like the kind of pictures that goofy kindergarten children create as their depiction of normalcy. But I thought I was as normal as all my other paste-eating, crayon-wielding friends … until I had to color my parents out of my drawings.

In my memory, I keep an album of snapshots of my mom, but sometimes it’s too painful to flip through the album because she died just before my eighth birthday. My mother was a gentle, soft-spoken schoolteacher who won a trip to Niagara Falls for being voted the best elementary teacher of the year in the Triple Cities, which includes Endicott, Binghamton, and Johnson City.

Dad, a baker at Eatwell Bakery, crowed with pride when we learned she had won the contest. Although he couldn’t get away from work long enough to accompany her, he insisted she go see the falls. You earned this, bunny face, he told her, and I want you to have the time of your life. I'll take care of our puppy. (I was the puppy. My father's nicknames for people he loved revolved around soft animals with floppy ears.)

Traveling had always been my mother's dream, but two days after she arrived, she stepped backward off a cliff while taking a photo, plunging to her death onto the rocks below. The account of her fatal accident was in all the newspapers and resulted in stricter safety regulations being implemented for the area, improvements that came too late to save my mom.

My father’s euphemism for her death was, She's now resting in Niagara. He also claimed she probably passed out the second she slipped and therefore didn't suffer, which we both convinced ourselves to be true because we couldn't bear thinking of the alternative.

Not too long after my mother’s accident, my dad experienced a nervous breakdown at the bakery. His only explanation was that the smell of donuts made him inexplicably sad. After an extended hospital stay, he finally returned to his job, but he took his melancholy to work with him every day for five years like a thermos of coffee in a lunch pail. There were intermittent hospital stays during those years, and with each one, I lost a bit more of my dad.

Unfortunately, the owner of the bakery eventually let him go for the sake of his recovery, which my grandpa declared was a cowardly way of saying; I'm firing you because I'm a callous blockhead.

The day Dad lost his job, my irate grandpa marched over to Eatwell Bakery, pulled the boss aside, and accused the guy of being a heartless donut-hole. (I suspect Gramps cleaned up the actual story when he related it to me.) According to Gramps, the boss sputtered like a dummy and claimed he couldn't just stand by while my dad's tears dripped all over the pastries. Gramps, with his usual touch of irony, told the boss that his muffins were tasteless anyway, so my dad was only doing him a favor. The best revenge was when Gramps spontaneously slugged an innocent-looking blueberry pie and two hapless croissants before storming out the door.

When my father lost his job permanently, I was thirteen years old. Because of my father’s loss of income, we had to move out of our house on Elm Street into a roomy but modest apartment above a six-car garage on nearby Jennings Street. Gramps and my father were very close, so Grandpa gave up his flat and moved in to help us out. You just get better, he told my dad, I'll mind the puppy.

My grandpa, a local landscaper, would often bring home different plants and bugs to teach me about botany and entomology. He was a very funny man with mischievous blue eyes, silver hair, and a tender heart--kind of a skinny version of Santa Claus. He was my own bundle of Christmas.

Gramps was also very creative. Together, we decorated my room with paper monarch butterflies we made from newspaper and wire, and every time he would bring home a new species of caterpillar, we would create a likeness out of papier-mâché until my room looked like the Museum of Natural History. I told Gramps that all that was missing was a dinosaur, and soon afterward, a Tyrannosaurus with bloody claws showed up on my dresser.

He was also very good with chemistry, so he conducted a variety of science experiments in our kitchen like the neighborly scientist Don Herbert on the television program, Watch Mr. Wizard. One time, Gramps caused a fizzling eruption while creating bath balls, so the ingredients oozed all over the counter like a creature from a horror movie. I loved it, of course.

Gramps knew my favorite experiments were the ones that went awry, so I always suspected that he planned the exhilarating outcome. I wasn’t sure until my dad spilled the beans after Gramps botched a baking soda and vinegar experiment which caused an explosion that peeled some of the wallpaper off the kitchen wall.

Don't let 'Mr. Wizard' fool you like he used to fool me, Rainy, my dad yelled from his bedroom, which was all the confirmation I needed that Grandpa planned his science snafus as a means of entertainment.

I know my dad and Gramps tried very hard to make my childhood seem normal, but how does a kid know what normal is, anyway? It seems to me that we define normalcy based on personal experiences, so at that point in my life, I had no concept of what was different. And yet my childhood turned out to be as unconventional as one might ever imagine.

As time passed, Dad's doctors prescribed a variety of medications for him, but he continued to slip deeper into depression; and every week he became thinner and weaker. Grandpa and I did the cooking and cleaning while my father stayed in bed most of the time.

Grandpa's cooking was very creative. He made grilled cheese with pickles, and beans on toast with shaved carrots on top. (The carrots were to ensure that I met the USDA's recommended daily quota of vegetables in case the Endicott Nutrition S.S. ever knocked on our door to inquire.)

Although we had limited funds, Gramps always made dinner fun. Each week, he brought home a gooey jelly roll from the A&P Grocery. I always got the biggest slice of the pinwheel-like confection. To make it as Parisian as the Eiffel Tower, Grandpa added a dollop of his homemade strawberry jam on top, undaunted by the threat of cavities.

My father stopped coming to the dinner table, so we served him his meals in bed. Gramps tried to make him laugh by playing pranks in hopes the silliness would lift Dad’s spirits. One day, he bought home plastic ice cubes that contained bug-eyed insects and served them to my father in a glass of lemonade. Dad didn't laugh much anymore, so when he feigned horror, we were delighted.

On another occasion, Gramps, pretending to discover something nasally offensive on his shoe, scraped it off and then licked his finger to identify the brown substance. Yup, he said, it's that tick-riddled dog with the overactive bowels that belongs to the Westons.

On his cue, I scooped up a finger-full to taste for myself. Hmm … I think you're right, Gramps. That’s beagle poop.

Of course, it was peanut butter, but Dad laughed loudly anyway. We were encouraged each time he laughed, although even then, I knew those moments were rapidly slipping away.

2

HONKY-TONK

On evenings when my dad was sleeping, my grandfather often took me with him to Jukie's, a local music hall on Nanticoke Avenue. The music hall exposed me to folks who were different from the people in my neighborhood and school. Our evenings at Jukie's helped me see color in the world during a time when my days were becoming increasingly gray.

We had to walk about eight blocks to the music hall, which was over a rundown sundry store on one of the more seedy blocks beyond our neighborhood. Occasionally, a shifty character eyed us as we passed by, so Grandpa always insisted on taking my hand, despite my protests that I was too old for hand-holding.

Gramps, I'm nearly fourteen, so you don't need to protect me. I appreciate your concern, but I'm not going to fall down a cliff, I protested, "so how 'bout if we just agree that you can hold my hand if we ever visit Niagara Falls? Whaddya say? (Negotiation was one of my favorite tactics.)

If we ever go to those damn falls, I’ll strap an inflatable raft and a parachute on your back and make you wear a buoy on your head, Lorraine Merrill!

But what if someone sees you holding my hand like a little kid? I'll get bullied at school. I think we stand out too much, Gramps.

That's exactly my concern. So hold on, or next time we come, you'll stand out even more because I'll make you wear a hat with a chicken on top.

"I’m pretty sure you don't have a chicken hat.

No, but I know where to get a chicken. He clucked loudly, which made me laugh despite my embarrassment.

I was always full of anticipation as we approached the dance hall. Although I felt guilty about leaving my father home alone, I knew there would be laughter, music, shouting, singing, and maybe even a fight or two, which was the pièce de résistance of eye-popping entertainment.

By the time we arrived, my stomach was like a sack of Mexican jumping beans. There were two stairways to the upstairs dance hall. One was an outdoor stairway that patrons had to access by walking around the building, and the other was a cozy, curved staircase right inside the entry, offering quick relief from the cold.

Gramps, please let's get inside fast where it's warm.

Honey, you know we always use the outside stairway that the Negro folks use.

But we're not Negroes.

We're not?

I think I would have noticed if we were.

Color is just a concept, my dear. I learned that lesson in the war. In a foxhole, you find out real fast that everybody's blood is the same color. And white folks shouldn’t have more privileges than our friends.

I understand, but it only makes sense that everyone should use the inside stairway where it's warm and less slippery. That would be safer for everybody.

You know the rule—they’re restricted.

Yes, I know--because of their color, but that’s really stupid!

It certainly is, but to some folks who live black-and-white lives, color is a negative thing. Always remember that the quality of your life is determined by the colors in your spectrum.

As we started up the wooden staircase behind the brick building, I could hear the music pulsating from inside the room. The warm lights were shining through the window, and as always, I was filled with anticipation.

I hear da beat, so let’s move dem feets. That was Grandpa's corny line each time we reached the top of the staircase. As we opened the door, there was an explosion of energy as the promise of adventure beckoned us in.

The dance hall was not fancy, but it felt rich with its varnished wood floors and rose-tinted walls. Warm lighting saturated the room in tones that smiled in greeting. The big glass ball that hung in the middle of the ceiling was covered with pieces of mirror that reflected the festive colors of the garments worn by all the women patrons as they sashayed around the dance hall.

Although the room did not have a bar, the patrons continually passed around thermos bottles full of liquor like a fire bucket brigade. Grandpa described nights at Jukie’s as an 86.5 proof progressive dinner.

Every evening, the activity paused long enough for an officiant, who usually was Gramps, to extract a numbered ball out of a spinning cage before our friend Primrose called out the number to the roomful of rapt listeners. Then someone in the crowd would hoot and cheer when they won the money in the lottery bowl. And almost always, the winner would slip a few coins into my hand so I would feel like a winner too.

Primrose was my image of a goddess with her burnished-brown skin and Chicklet-white teeth. She was tall, with a plump midline, wide shoulders, and an ample bosom to support a laugh that reverberated like the engine of an old Ford truck. When Primrose hugged me, I felt so safe that I wanted to bury my head in her chest to breathe in her intoxicating scent, which was a mixture of rum and lilacs.

Gramps played everything from standards to boogie-woogie to honky-tonk, and Prim loved to sing along with the music. Her dulcet voice was like warm apple pie and as satisfying as her hugs. Grandpa would often draw out a song as long as possible just so Primrose would keep singing. She could sing anything, but my favorite tune was her version of the Etta James hit, Roll With Me Henry, which always got the place rocking till the light fixtures shook.

I was old enough to notice that Primrose had a big crush on Gramps. When I asked him about her one night during a break in the music, he whispered, She sure is a fine lady, but it wouldn't be appropriate for me to take her out in public. Mixed couples can run into trouble, and I would never put her in that situation. But let’s have her over for dinner sometime. What do you say to that, kiddo?

Can she do the cooking? I teased.

What? Nothing can top my tuna volcano. You have no sense of adventure, Rainy! he laughed. Break is over. They're calling for us to keep the party going. What would you like to hear next?

‘Heart of My Heart’! I answered without hesitation, knowing it was a crowd favorite. We carried on with gusto until it was time to close up and go home. After the last song, everyone stood up and pledged allegiance to the flag while Grandpa played the Star-Spangled Banner, which was one of my favorite moments of every visit. We all placed our hands on our hearts as we proudly demonstrated our patriotism.

After the dance hall closed, we usually hitched a ride home with old John Joe, who wore bead necklaces and a feather in his hat. He was always happy to let us squeeze into the cab of his beloved Chevy truck he had dubbed Pocahontas. He talked to her as if she were human, and sometimes he paused for her to answer while Gramps and I waited patiently for signs of life. Finally, John Joe would nod as if answering, and then he would start her up so we could all head home.

John Joe, who claimed to be a descendant of Chief Crazy Horse, was very outgoing but a little whacky. One evening, Gramps told him he was more accurately a descendant of Chief Crazy Horse's Ass, which made me laugh so hard that I peed on the seat. I was horrified, but John Joe assured me that it was an honor that it was I who had baptized his truck and that now he would be safe in his Chevy forever.

As usual, that night at Jukie's was a wonderful escape, although I had no way of knowing it would be my last evening to ever visit the dance hall with Gramps. I truly believed that my life was looking up, but I had yet to learn that even when looking, we can't truly see what is in front of us.

3

CARNIVAL

It was June 1951. Our school term was over, and the excitement of summer vacation had set in. I loved it when summer rolled around, not only because Endicott was too cold in the winter, but also because summer was the season when the nearby woods came alive with violets and Lilies of the Valley, caterpillars, butterflies, and lightning bugs.

Neighborhood friends of all ages usually hung out in the woods at the end of Elm Street behind Frey Avenue, where we picked wildflowers, climbed trees, and raced the cottontail rabbits through the tall grass to test our speed. Our favorite gathering spot was the creek that meandered lazily through the woods. The younger kids collected turtles for pets while the teenagers competed by catching minnows in our hands to improve reflexes as we revved up for street softball.

In one area of the creek, the water was deep enough to swim. Somewhere in the past, a clever local had mounted a rope on a sturdy branch of a maple tree and then nailed horizontal footholds up one side of its trunk so swimmers could climb to the top, grab the rope, and swing far out over the water.

There was a certain protocol for using the rope swing. Although there were constant fights in the neighborhood, no one tried to jump the line to the rope swing. It was forbidden. The older swimmers would grab the rope for the younger children and bring it close to shore so that those who were deemed too small to climb the tree (by democratic process, of course) could take flight from the edge of the creek bed. They would also stay vigilant to make sure no little heads went underwater without popping up again.

Endicott, home of E-J Shoes, was a company town where even the most self-absorbed teenagers in the neighborhood were ingrained with a collective sense of responsibility and an all-for-one attitude (exemplified by regular group efforts to sneak each other through the back door of the Starlight Movie Theater.)

While frolicking at the creek, the worst injury was usually an ear infection, although my friend Margie White once fell out of a tree and broke her tailbone. After immediately forming an ad hoc group of paramedics, Tommy DiGiovanni, Rene Hardy and I placed Margie on an old log and dragged her up Maple Street until we got her safely home. It was a group effort, and we felt like Purple Heart-worthy heroes. (Margie, who winced every time the log hit a crack in the sidewalk, undoubtedly viewed the whole painful event